


New Purr-spectives

by ScribeOfRED



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Cat Puns, Fluff, Gen, Kansas, a kitten might make an appearance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 04:40:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17891663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeOfRED/pseuds/ScribeOfRED
Summary: A long, difficult week has Virgil seeking out a familiar haven—which leads him to a rather unexpected encounter.





	New Purr-spectives

**Author's Note:**

> For Reb, who deserves all the fluffy birthday goodness <3

The two-ton pickup rolls to a gentle stop at the edge of the dirt oval centered in the grass between the house and the barn. The engine idles briefly; then it falls silent save a few quiet ticks as it begins to cool down after several hours’ work.

Inside the cab, Virgil sits for a minute, fingers loosely woven together and resting on the top of the steering wheel as he looks up at the weathered but still handsome farmhouse, with its once-black trim and once-white siding. Both have faded a bit, softened by sun and storms and time, like a lightly blurred charcoal drawing.

It’s pretty, especially with the cloud-hazed sun beginning to drift behind the house, but he makes no attempt to reach for any of the art supplies tucked into the bag sitting on the passenger’s seat. There will be time later, when he actually feels like creating; for now he just sits and admires, something he hasn’t done a lot of recently.

But sitting is pretty much all he’s done since he hauled Tracy-Two out of the hanger almost eight hours ago, so once the sun has sunk entirely behind the house and its windbreak of wide-branched oak trees, he grabs his bag and his keys before exiting the truck. There’s a gentle breeze stirring the young leaves, and he can’t help a slight shiver, even through his jean jacket. Apparently Kansas is having a reasonably warm spring this year, but a subtropical lifestyle kind of screws with one’s perceptions of what’s classified as “warm.”

He’s worked in far worse, though, and he knows from experience he’ll acclimate soon enough, so he locks the truck and meanders toward the house, less interested in rushing and more interested in filling his lungs with the pervading, musty scent of tilled loam. He’s on farm time now; the rigid schedule he adheres to on the island is no more, at least not for the next five days. Here, he can do whatever he wants.

First on his list is procuring a glass of water, which he sips as he gazes about the kitchen. It’s about the same as when he was last here just under a year ago, even though he knows both Scott and Gordon have been here since then. They’re all pretty good at leaving things ready for the next visitor who decides to stop by; no one wants to have to clean up a months’ old mess after a long day of travel.

The kitchen’s wide windows look south over the leased-out fields, allowing the tangerine sunlight to bathe his face. It’s warm without being too hot or direct, and it doesn’t take long for him to leave his bag on the floor by the table in favor of stepping out onto the porch. There are some sturdy chairs propped against the house, but he ignores them in favor of leaning his arms on the wide-spindled railing wrapping around the porch, the better to appreciate the fields sprawling away behind the house. They’re still dark, upturned soil bared to the world, releasing an earthy smell that’s cleaner and lighter than the deep, dank clay exposed by torrential rains and mudslides.

He waded through enough of that gunk this past week to last him the next few lifetimes.

But he hasn’t come here to dwell on the dreary thoughts that pushed him off the island in the first place. He’s put himself through enough self-doubt, enough self-flagellation, during the hours of solitary flight and driving; now that he’s reached his destination, he’s here to relax and refresh himself, mind, body, and soul.

Easier said than done, unfortunately.

There are some lightweight art supplies in his bag, and unless his brothers messed with his stuff during their stays here, he has more stored away in his room for whenever the urge strikes. It might not. He doesn’t have to force himself into creating art to unwind now that IR’s been running for more than a couple years, although when inspiration comes naturally, it tends to be highly effective.

More than anything else, patience is key, so he tries to clear his mind as he watches the sun sink toward the horizon, streaks of magenta and copper piercing through the gray clouds. He could go get a drink, they always leave beer stashed away in the cold room, but it can wait until he scrounges up a meal later. Besides, the green-and-brown-scented breeze is refreshing enough for the moment, tousling his hair with light, cool fingers, as though it’s trying to reach into his mind and blow away all the clinging shadows.

He closes his eyes, savoring the sensation—then yelps and hops sideways when something touches his foot.

Belatedly, he remembers there are no deadly snakes here, an ever-present danger whenever they’re working in tropical regions. Then what—?

There’s a soft little noise down by his foot, one that he recognizes even before he locates the source in the spreading dusk. It’s a cat.

“ _Mrrrrow_?”

No, he realizes as he forces his fingers to uncurl from their stranglehold on the railing. It’s a kitten. Old enough to be entirely steady on its paws but young enough it still hasn’t fully developed an adult’s proportions.

“Hello there.” He crouches down to inspect what he can now see is a tabby and extends a hand toward it, though he stops shy of touching it, instead waiting to see what it’ll do. “Where did you come from?”

The kitten meows again, an oddly squeaky noise, and sniffs his fingers before butting its head against them.

“Right. Ask a silly question.” The kitten is showing no signs of wariness, so either it’s used to humans or it’s a brave little soul. Either way, Virgil finds himself stroking the soft head, taking care not to press too hard. For his efforts, he receives another squeaky meow, followed by a pleased purr.

It’s really rather cute, and he finds himself indulging the kitten for longer than he intends. Eventually, though, he stands, only to receive some rather vocal protests as the kitten rubs against his boot, as though trying to prevent him from leaving.

Maybe it’s the affection; maybe it’s the way the kitten has tilted his head back to give him a beseeching look. Maybe he’s just a sucker for a cute face. Whatever the cause, he finds himself bending down again, this time taking a seat against the railing after a minute when it becomes clear the cat has no intention of losing interest and wandering away.

Based on the kitten’s short coat and the remarkable size of its ears, it’s a local cat, though whether it’s from the barn a couple hundred feet away or a different farm altogether, Virgil has no idea. It doesn’t have a collar either, though that’s hardly uncommon—strange cats would occasionally wander onto the property back when they all still lived here, and it seems nothing has changed.

The little pink nose sniffs at the side of his pants a few times before the kitten rests a paw on his leg and gazes up at him, as though deliberating on what to do now.

Virgil strokes a finger between the dish-shaped ears. “You’re quite the curious one.”

The kitten squeaks its agreement and lifts its head, and even though Virgil knows it’s nothing more than projection, he’d swear the little thing is smiling at him. It certainly seems happy, because it takes the risk of stepping up onto his lap, where it inspects his jeans with a thoroughness he can’t help but appreciate before finally settling down with a purr.

It’s entirely possible Virgil’s heart melts a little bit at the immediate trust he’s being given, and he just has to indulge the kitten, slowly stroking a hand over its back.

The sun and the earth continue their inexorable paths, leaving the sky to fade from pastel colors all the way into grayscale, until Virgil has trouble actually seeing the bundle of fur cozied up in his lap. It’s still purring, almost loud enough to drown out the quietly trilling birds settling in to roost among the oaks, and he can’t help smiling down at the kitten occasionally, soothed by its presence in a way he didn’t anticipate. His thoughts are still gummy, clogged with memories of torrential rains and sucking mud, but they seem paler now, looser, not as wedged deep into his brain. Maybe by the end of his stay here they’ll be gone entirely.

The kitten lifts its head and nudges his stilled hand, essentially demanding he resume petting it, and he’s given no choice but to continue, even though his leg is beginning to go to sleep. A little while longer can’t hurt.

Too bad he doesn’t have better lighting and his sketchpad—he’s getting the urge to draw this cute little creature. Maybe he’ll even pull out his pastels, provided the kitten will deign to sit still long enough for him. It seems happy where it is, so maybe he’ll get lucky and his new muse will stick around.

With the building urge to create comes a soft laugh. “Mews,” he decides, thumb rubbing beneath the soft chin. “I’m going to call you Mews.”

The kitten rumbles a little noise and rests its head on his knee, apparently pleased. Smiling, Virgil tips his head back to rest against the railing as he continues to pet the warm body. Mews won’t be coming back with him—cats don’t belong on a tropical island—but he’s more than happy to accept its company for however long it lasts.

To the east, a waxing moon spills its borrowed light over the farmhouse, cool and cleansing as it heralds the closing of an old day and the genesis of a new and better one. Maybe, if Mews is still around, he’ll find himself here again tomorrow night, lap full of purring kitten and sketchpad in hand, soaking in the silvery moonlit peace offered by an untroubled corner of the world—and a content kitten.


End file.
